


Things Change and Days Turn to Night

by MadHattaProductions



Category: Eustass Kid??, one piece?, probably one piece
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHattaProductions/pseuds/MadHattaProductions
Summary: The short writing I did - be warned there are a few graphic scenes i think... i wrote it late and it remains unfinished and short





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is unfinished, short and graphic - so far i think the main character is kid and there will be an explanation if i continue it

The blackness rocked the seas with an eerie calmness, the oceans waves too still and the sails too empty of their wind.

The horizon did not exist in the pitch black, the wooden decking nearly impossible to see. There was no moonlight tonight, and there was no sound save the gentle lapping of water against the ships edge.

Amidst that cold, foreboding darkness, a figure sat, still as stone. He sat asleep, though sitting upright, with a terrible dream ringing in his ears.

A call from the past that drowned him into battle, swallowed him whole and devoured his senses.

It took only moments for the cold sweat to begin chilling his skin.

Behind his eyelids, his eyes rolled back and forth and he fought to move, to survive, though still.

Blade in hand, gun at his fingertips and fist to bruised skin and bloody teeth. The screams of men echoed in his ears, his own howl sending shivers across his skin. In a swift motion, he was watching himself hacking down opponent after opponent in the arena, sword after sword breaking, blood after drop of blood raining upon him the way only the spatter of death would allow.

The sight made him sick, made him claw at his own skin as he saw what others saw then. It forced him to gulp as he was pushed back into motion, suddenly the him that was fighting yet again, the fight to survive. To kill or be killed. The survival of the fittest.

But with every swing, every hit and every death it wasn’t what the onlookers saw.

He growled and yelled fierce battle cries to push himself past limits he could never reach, until his limbs were like the arms of a puppet on a string moving on their own. He was numb and sore, though his muscles could not rest for even a moment.

They would place him in fight after fight consecutively until he collapsed but today he would not fall.

He utilised all he had, would not bow to any armoured foe. All he had was a short sword as his next opponent entered the arena.

He was faced against a fully armoured opponent who beared a shield and a longsword at his fist, a deadly look shaded by the helm of a mask.

He gulped, compared to this foe he was naked. He wore only a layered pteruges about his waist made of leather and fastened so that each strap was covered by light pieces of metal, adorned with many bolts to aid in protection even though it barely reached his knees, and beneath it a subligaculum for his own modesty and protection. On his feet he was granted the wearing of caligae, though they were made only of leather and barely protected his feet from the scarred ground of the coliseum.

He was not allowed even basic manica, or a simple galea to shield his head. He wore no plating on his shoulders or cover on his neck, his only cover was the pteruges he wore, barely protecting his upper thighs at all.

His foe came in full battle militia armour; consisting of the gladia and scutum as well as manica on both arms, greaves covering both legs and the common clothing and torso armour of a low rank soldier. He also wore a full galea, with a focale to protect his neck.

The lightly clad gladiator, as he was called, grit his teeth. The only way to defeat this opponent would be to overpower him with brute force. With his shorter gladia, he doubted he would even be capable of getting close to the opponent, let alone past his scutum which stood tall and stead made of iron to block his attacks.

The two circled each other, beginning the first step of the devils’ dance that was their fight. They each knew that if they tried to surrender they would be killed by others, both together. Neither was willing to give in.

It was like watching two fierce lions fight each other, all teeth and claw, raw and deadly with their attacks.

The armoured one took the first swing, charging in at full speed with his gladia drawn and pointed.

He knew how to defeat his opponent as he side stepped the attack; he was faster, more agile. He was not weighed by armour or scutum or larger gladia. He would win without a doubt.

He had to.

One could call it pride, but he would not accept defeat.

He stood as a cornered animal in the cage called coliseum to any other, his attacker swiftly turning to face him.

Bigger, bloodier, bolder he rushed at the cornered animal, his growls and sharp breaths loud and fuming in his galea; though it shielded his head it made his face hotter and his breathing harder.

His gladia missed completely, as the cornered animal became the hunter instead of the hunted, no blood oozing from the cut that was intended on him.

He was fierce, ferocious, determined and underestimated. He made his armoured opponent regret stepping into the ring in that moment alone, as he rushed at him head on and his opponent froze in his eyes.

They were not the eyes of a killer, as he was told. This was no creature to be hunted or killed, no monster who needed the mercy of death, this was no beast who needed to be put down, no animal gone feral. This was a man who against every last odd was alive and surviving through it all. In those short moments a smile graced his face and he yelled into this mans’ ears to live against all costs as he dropped his gladia and scutum to accept the blade that burrowed into his mildly exposed side.

“You must live, bēlua, live and show them you are no ‘thing’ worthy of execution,” he coughed, using the only term ever used to describe the near-naked gladiator. It was a term which meant ‘wild beast’ or ‘monster’.

In a swift moment the younger, less-clad man grit his teeth, an almost formed tear rolling onto his dirt-ridden face. “I am sorry, carnifex,” his broken voice whispered, deep and rasped, “But it was to die as a broken dog or live as a feared beast.” He murmured to the defeated executioner.

The dying man grinned, though blood pooled on his lips. “Endure, bēlua, and survive.” He seemed to be trying to speak further, but the blood in his lungs finally choked his words and he came to a halting and brutal fit of gargles, his hand tightly clutching onto the youngers as he watched the man die.

All he could do was hold his hand tight until the coughs stopped and the man lived no further, then pry his hand out of the death grip which held it.

Another fierce grip took hold of his shoulder and he was wrenched to his feet as the victor, his gladia ripped from the mans’ torso in a slew of still hot blood then shoved into his other fist. A crowd of too many cheered and yelled, some yelling insults and some throwing things at him.


End file.
